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The Good Old Days 



A Comedy in One Act 



BY 

ALICE C. THOMPSON 

Author of "Molly's Way," "A Knot of White Ribbon,' 
"A Suffragette Baby," eta 




PHILADELPHIA 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1912 



* 



Copyright 1912 by The Penn Publishing Company 



The Good O'.d Days 

/ 



©CI.D 31814 



The Good Old Days 



CHARACTERS 



Mrs. Mint Penelope's mother. 

Penelope . . a young lady with old-fashioned tastes. 

Maud Penelope 's sister, and very modern. 

Miss Martha Mint Penelope's aunt. 

Ida "i 

Sally 

Dorothy \ . . girl friends of Penelope and Maud. 

Grace | 

Julia J 

Miss Abigail James . . the aunt in Penelope's dream. 

Biddy a servant in Penelope 's dream. 

Abigail and Biddy double with Mrs. Mint and Martha. 
Time of Playing. — Thirty minutes. 

STORY OF THE PLAY 

Penelope Mint, a girl of eighteen, is " perfectly crazy " 
about the good old days of stage-coach and minuet. She 
wishes she had lived at the time when her great-great- 
grandtnother was a belle. While preparing for a party and 
awaiting her girl friends Penelope falls asleep. She wakes, 
as she thinks, in the old days, asks for matches, and is 
bidden to fetch *' flint and tinder." She is startled to find 
the household has never heard of telephone, telegraph, ice- 
cream, furnaces, rocking-chairs. " What a life ! No golf, 
no bridge, no motoring ! " Aunt Abigail thinks she's be- 
witched. The coach of Penelope's friends is attacked by 
highwaymen. Loud shouts of terror — "The Indians be 
upon us ! " Penelope hunts wildly for the 'phone, finds an 
old rifle, points and fires it and faints. Then she awakes. 
" Ah, I'm thankful I'm in the twentieth century." 



COSTUMES, ETC. 

Mrs. Mint. In the opening scene wears a modern house 
dress that may be quickly changed at end of scene to colonial 
dress. As Miss Abigail in the second scene (Penelope's 
dream) she appears as a stately woman, wearing a high- 
waisted, short-sleeved, low-necked dress, of silk, if possible; 
around her neck a white lace-edged fichu, pinned with a 
large brooch. Her gray hair is parted, done up high with 
a comb, with small curls hanging in front of the ears. 
Black lace mitts on her hands, and around her waist a 
black ribbon, on which are keys. She carries a small 
black bag, in which are a handkerchief, smelling salts, a 
piece of embroidery, thimble, silk, needle, and scissors. 

Penelope. In scene one wears high-waisted Empire 
gown, or a modern dress, or loose gown that may be readily 
changed for colonial costume at close of the scene. Her 
colonial costume should be one of the narrow, high-waisted, 
low-necked dresses of that time, similar to the "Empire" 
gown of to-day. With it go heelless slippers, white stock- 
ings, hair parted and arranged with side curls, and em- 
broidered or beaded reticule. 

Maud. Modern house dress, and long apron. 

Miss Martha. In opening scene wears plain modern 
gown. She is elderly and severe. In second scene, as Biddy, 
she wears a colonial gray dress plainly made, with long 
apron, and a large white cap, like a hood, but without strings. 

Ida, Sally, Dorothy, Grace, Julia. All wear colonial 
costumes, similar to that described above for Penelope. 
They also wear long cloaks, one or two trimmed with fur, 
large bonnets tied under their chins, and mitts or long gloves. 
Sally and Ida carry large brocaded bags, and Grace and 
Julia large chintz-covered bandboxes tied with ribbon. 

Abigail (see Mrs. Mint, above). 

Betty (see Miss Martha, above). 

PROPERTIES 

One or two vases, flowers, desk telephone, a book, an old- 
fashioned blue and white patchwork quilt, basket with 
sewing materials, five suit-cases or traveling bags, two 
brass candlesticks, black paper silhouettes, two large round 
hat-boxes tied with ribbon, square embroidery frame hold- 
ing a piece of embroidery, an old rifle. 

4 



The Good Old Days 



SCENE. — Mrs. Mint's sitting-room. At l. c. a small table 
with a desk telephone on it, two vases and some flowers 
and a small basket with needle, cotton, thimble and 
scissors. An armchair beside table. At R. c. a sofa 
and a rocking-chair. Entrances c. and down l. and r. 

(At rise Mrs. M. discovered arranging flowers in vases at 
table.') 

Miss Martha Mint {off l.). Penelope! Penelope! 
(Enters l. She is elderly and stem looking?) Where is 
Penelope? 

Mrs. M. I thought she was helping yon do up the bed- 
rooms, Martha. 

Martha. She was helping me, but she went away half 
an hour ago to find some extra bed-spreads, and I haven't 
seen her since. I s'pose she's discovered some more old 
books, and is lost to the world — the modern world at least. 
And the party to-morrow ! 

Mrs. M. Oh, she's so busy getting up her paper for the 
Historical Society — on the olden times. " Stage-Coach 
Days," she calls it. She's perfectly crazy about it. 

Martha. Yes, [ know the sort of thing. And when she 
found that piece about her great-great-grandmother, Penel- 
ope James, she was so excited she couldn't eat her dinner. 
And she's given up her lessons in stenography and type- 
writing with Mrs. Fairchild. It's a pity, 1 say. 

Mrs. M. Penelope James was a great belle. 

Martha. Yes, and kept in order by her Aunt Abigail, 
from all accounts. Girls had to mind in those days. I 
wish Penelope would copy Maud's example. There's a 
sensible, practical girl for you. 

Mrs. M. Indeed she is. She's making pies. How do 
these flowers look, Martha ? 

Martha. Humph ! They'll do. How many girls are 
coming ? 

5 



t) THE GOOD OLD DAYS 

Mrs. M. There's Ida and Sally, Dorothy, Grace and 
Julia. 

Martha. And all of them to sleep over night — and the 
dance to-morrow. My goodness ! I'll never get through 
in time. Rooms to be aired and dusted and clean bed- 
spreads and bureau covers. Oh, my ! Oh, my ! (Crosses l.) 
Penelope ! Penelope ! 

(Exit, l.) 

{Enter Maud, r. She wears a long apron and has flour 
on her hands ,) 

Maud. Oh, mother, where's Penelope ? Can't she go 
for some baking powder? I'm so busy, and there's not a 
bit in the house. 

Mrs. M. I hardly like to ask her, Maud. Her paper 
for the Historical Club must be finished, you know. Why 
not telephone? 

Maud. It's such a small order, and they're sure to keep 
me waiting. But I'll try. {Sits beside table and takes tip 

receiver. .) Main 1121 Yes, please. Is that Hudson's? 

This is Mrs. Mint's. Will you send me over a can of 

baking powder? When can you send it? Oh, he's 

coming now? Thank you. {Hangs up receiver. ,) They 

were just sending up this way. I'm so relieved. Whatever 
should we do without the telephone? Oh, goodness, I 
smell my pies burning ! 

{Exit, r. Mrs. M. picks up the vases of flowers and 
exits r.) 

{Enter Penelope, l. She carries a lar%e book under one 
arm and in the other an old patchwork quilt. The quilt 
drags on the floor as she walks. In the book are a paper 
and pencil. Penelope sits beside table, takes paper from 
book and reads aloud with a pleased smile. ) 

Penelope. So I have taken this old letter, written so 
long ago, and have quoted it at length, as it gives a very 
good picture of those merry days. " Miss Dorothy Prim- 
rose to Miss Tabitha Short. September, 1765. My dearest 
Friend : It is midnight and the household well asleep, so I 
shall now endeavour to write you of our Great Doings. We 
have been very gay with Balls, Picknicks and Parties of 



THE GOOD OLD DAYS 7 

various kinds. At the Ball was a grand Company of Belles 
and Beaux in their best Brocade, Patches and a-plenty of 
Powder ; Miss Penelope James being the Toast of the Even- 
ing, tho she did but come in white sprigged muslin, her 
new- pink Taffetas being on its way this six weeks from 
England, but the ship we fear delayed by Great storms. 
Nevertheless her Hand was much sought amongst the Gentle- 
men and they do say she was fetched to the Ball in Mr. 
Randolph's chair, all the rest of the Company being afoot, 
or at the best on Horse." {The telephone bell rings. Pe- 
nelope starts, looks up and returns to her paper. It rings 
again. Penelope removes receiver from hook. Impatiently.} 
Hello ! No, it isn't. You have the wrong number. 

{Puts receiver on hook.) 

(Enter Martha, l.) 

Martha. I thought I heard the telephone. 

Penelope. You did. Wrong number. I hate the tele- 
phone. Just think, Aunt Martha; once, not so very long 
ago, this town had no telephones, no electric light, no gas. 
There wasn't such a thing as a train in all the land, and 
every one used wax candles and traveled by stage-coach. 
Some had sedan chairs — at least in Boston. Oh, how de- 
lightful it must have been ! They talk about the hardships 
of the pioneers, but I think they had lovely times. 

Martha. Lovely ! Delightful ! Mighty uncomfortable, 
I call it. You ought to be thankful that you are living at a 
time when comfort, convenience and safety are the universal 
portion. Now, where did you come across that old quilt of 
my grandmother's? 

Penelope. I found it in the attic. It will do for Dor- 
othy's bed. She likes old things. I'm going to mend it. 

Martha. That's old enough, goodness knows ! I 
haven't seen it for years. You had better get to work on 
it, for it seems to me it will take a deal of mending. 

Penelope. I will, Aunt Martha. But let me finish this 
first. It's all about a party in the olden days, when every- 
thing was so different and so romantic. 

Martha. But what about your party that's, going tq 
happen to-morrow night ? 

Penelope. Lots of time. I am going to work hard 
when I finish my es§ay. Do listen to this letter, Aunt 



8 THE GOOD OLD DAYS 

Martha. I got it out of an old book, and I'm copying it. 
All the nouns begin with capitals. It's so funny. (Martha 
sits with an air of resignation. Penelope reads.') " I 
am told that against the Expressed wishes of her Parents 
Penelope begged the Loan of her Cousin Julia's famous 
Pearl necklace and must needs wear it to the Ball. Jn the 
midst of a Minuet I heard her of a sudden cry out, ' Oh, I 
am undone, I am undone.' " 

Martha {interrupting). Such language in a ballroom. 
Why didn't she ask some lady quietly to button her up? 

Penelope. Wait a minute. Let me finish. {Reads.) 
" And then I saw the String had bursted and all the Jewels 
lay scattered on the Floor. The Musick ceased and every 
Gallant went down on his Knees to find them, and very 
glad I am to declare they was all Restored to her, at which 
her Composure happily returned and the Ball continued ill 
Great Gaiety till long after Midnight." 

Martha {sarcastically). Was they indeed ? I wonder 
why they didn't learn grammar? 

Penelope. It seems it was very common then to say 
"was" when we should say "were"; but isn't it interest- 
ing ? I'll go on. 

(Enter Maud, r.) 

Maud. Oh, Aunt Martha, please come. Mother wants 
you to help us decide where to place the orchestra to-mor- 
row night. 

(Martha rises.) 

Penelope. I wish we could have a minuet. 

Maud. Minuet ! What nonsense ! There's nothing 
like the two-step. (Dances out l., humming air.) 

Martha {sternly). Now, Penelope, put away that foolish 
essay and get to work on this quilt if you really intend to do 
it. {Gives her basket.) Here are needles, thimble, and all 
you want. Don't waste any more time in looking backward. 

Penelope. No. I will work". 

{Exit Martha, l.) 

(Penelope begins to sew. very industriously, then yawns, 
drops quilt, picks it up a^ain and finally settles down into 
the chair, drawing quilt up all around her^and sleepily 
closing eyes. 



THE GOOD OLD DAYS 9 

The lights are turned out, and the curtain descends and re- 
mains doWn white the scene is slightly changed. The in- 
terval should be as short as possible. 

The telephone and rocking-chair are removed. Some black 
paper silhouettes or old pictures are hung on walls, a brass 
candlestick holding a wax candle is on the table and at 
back l. a high backed chair and a piece of embroidery in 
a square frame on floor against wall. The quilt is also 
removed. 

At rise of curtain Penelope is seen standing by the door c., 
looking out. She wears the same gown. The stage is 
dimly lit. Miss Abigail James heard off r., calling 
Penelope. She enters r.) 

Abigail. How now, Penelope? Idling at the door when 
so many tasks await you, and the party this very night ? 
Fie, fie ! 

{Sits and takes embroidery out of bag and begins to sew.) 

Penelope. I'm watching for the girls. I wonder if the 
train is on time. 

Abigail. The train ! What do you mean, child ? 
Likely the stage-coach is bemired. The roads at this sea- 
son of the year are none too good. 

Penelope {clasping her hands'). Oh, a real stage-coach ! 
How delightful ! 

Abigail. Aye, one of these newfangled affairs, all cush- 
ioned, if ye please. The ladies are growing very delicate. 
In my young days we rode on horse, and was content 
enough. Come, child, close the door and light the can- 
dles; the night is drawing in. 

(Penelope comes down c.) 

Penelope. Where are the matches ? 

Abigail (dropping her embroidery). The what? 

Penelope. The matches. To light the candles. 

Abigail {shortly). Fetch the flint and tinder. I think 
you have been moping too long in the dark. {Enter Biddy, 
l. She carries two candles in brass candlesticks. Lights 
up.) No, never mind. Here's Biddy with lights. 

(Biddy puts candles on table.) 



10 THE GOOD OLD DAYS 

Biddy (curtseying). Mistress, if ye plase, I need eggs 
for the custard and wax candles for the dancing-room. We 
has but six left. 

Abigail. Oh, we must have forty at the least, for 'tis a 
large apartment, and I am determined on a genteel rout. 
Bid Mary take a letter down to Mr. Cunningham's shop. 
And give her a farthing for her pains. Have you gotten 
ready the victuals? 

Biddy. Yes, ma'am ; there be a-plenty cold fowl, sylla- 
bubs, trifle, custards, cinnamon nuts and frosted plum cake, 
and to wash it down elderberry wine, gooseberry wine and 
cider. 

Penelope (disappointed). No ice-cream ? 

Biddy (staring). Eh? 

Penelope. No vanilla or maple mousse ice-cream? 

Abigail. I don't know what you mean, Penelope, but I 
think we have provided in a becoming manner. Now, 
Biddy, you'd best put a warming-pan in the beds. The 
young ladies will be here soon. And a bit of fire, too, in the 
chimney piece would not be amiss this cold night. 

Penelope. What ! Haven't you a furnace? 

Biddy. A what ? I never heard you use such queer 
outlandish words in all my life, Miss Penelope. 

(Exit Biddy, l., looking back at Penelope as if bewil- 
dered.) 

Abigail. Penelope, this idleness is growing upon you. 
It will surely breed a distemper in you. 

Penelope. Good gracious, Aunt Abigail ! Distemper ! 
You speak as though I were a puppy. 

Abigail. Hoity toity ! Don't answer back, miss, but 
get your sampler. Another word now and I'll put you to 
the backboard for an hour. 

Penelope. Well, I never ! (Sits in small chair picking 
up embroidery frame. ) What an uncomfortable chair ! 
Where is the rocking-chair? 

Abigail. What do you mean ? Never have I seen aught 
that rocked except a cradle. 'Tis about time you made 
your father some shirts, 1 think. 

Penelope (laughing). I make father's shirts ! Why, 
the idea ! I couldn't make one to save my life. 

Abigail (raising her hands in horror). An idle, saucy 
maid ! When I was younger than you I could make a shirt, 



THE GOOD OLD DAYS II 

bake, brew, and answer my elders civilly. Aye, and play 
passable well on the spinet. 

Penelope. What a life ! No golf, no bridge, no mati- 
nees, no motoring. Oh, my ! 

{Enter Biddy, l.) 

Biddy. Oh, mistress, the fiddlers has come, and the big 
game pie I made for to-night is gone from the larder, 'lis 
my belief the harpist has took it. Whatever shall we do, 
ma'am, and the kitchen fire gone out? 

Penelope (promptly). Telephone the butcher for some 
lamb chops and cook them on the gas stove, of course. 

Abigail. Silence, miss ! 'Tis sad news, Biddy. If it 
was not for our rout to-night I should have him in the 
stocks ; but we need him. Say nought about it to-night, 
Biddy ; but pray fetch me a dish of tea. I feel a faintness 
coming on. 

Biddy. I will, ma'am. The town constable will look 
after him to-morrow, I reckon. 

(Penelope rises and goes to windoiu.*) 

Penelope. When are those girls coming? Something 
must have happened. Why don't they telegraph? Oh, 
they could hire a motor. It's only a few hours' run from 
Boston. 

Biddy. A few hours ! A whole day's journey. Lawks- 
a-massey ! 

Abigail. That's the way she's been talking all day. I 
can't understand her, or the strange words she utters. 

Biddy. Belike Goody Fairchild has bewitched her. 
I've seen her down at her cottage. 

Abigail. You're right, Biddy. I know you have been 
there, Penelope. 

Penelope. Of course I have. Mrs. Fairchild is giving 
me lessons in stenography and typewriting. She's a sten- 
ographer, you know. 

Biddy. Oh, she's gone clean daft. 

Abigail {emphatically and to Penelope). A witch, you 
mean. I tell you what, missy, I'll have Mr. Codman up to 
bleed you. 

Penelope. Dr. Codman? Oh, Aunt Abigail, he 
wouldn't do anything so foolish. Why, when I went to see 
him a few days ago because I had a little cold, he advised 



12 THE GOOD OLD DAYS 

me to sleep with both my windows wide open and to take a 
cold bath in the morning. 

(Biddy stares at Penelope dumbfounded.} 

Abigail. Then he's crazy, too. I'll see to it that your 
bed curtains are drawn snug and close ; that your windows 
are shut tight that not a breath of the chill night air may 
reach you. 

Biddy. Aye, and sand bags for every window sill. I'll 
fetch 'em down from the attic. I'll fetch 'em now. 

{Exit, l.) 

Penelope. And is this America ? {A horn heard off c.) 
Thank goodness ! There's the motor. 

Abigail. Enough of this levity, Penelope. 'Tis most 
unseemly in a young gentlewoman. Unbar the door. 

(Penelope runs up c, and opens door. Enter Ida, Sally, 
Dorothy, Grace and Julia. All are in great distress 
and alarm?) 

Dorothy. A haven at last ! {Drops into a chair.') 
Sally {running to Penelope). My dearest Penelope ! 
I thought my time had surely come. 

{Falls into her arms.') 

Ida. 'Tis only by good fortune we are here to tell the 
tale. 

Abigail. Whatever is amiss ? What is it ? Pray tell 
us. 

Julia. A horrible misadventure, ma'am. Our coach 
was held up by highwaymen. 

Penelope. How thrilling ! Not real highwaymen ? 

Julia. Oh, ruffians, my love, equipped with masks and 
horse pistols, which they presented to us, demanding our 
money or our lives. 

(Dorothy closes eyes?) 

Grace. Oh, see, our dear Dorothy has swooned. 

Ida. The hartshorn ! Bring the hartshorn and cam- 
phor. 

Abigail. I will tend her. (Goes to Dorothy and tak- 
ing small bottle from her reticule, holds it to Dorothy's 
nose.) This venture has been too much for her. 



THE GOOD OLD DAYS 1 3 

Grace. I have lost every shilling. 

Julia. And I — as well as the little silk purse sister Mary 
knit for me. 

Dorothy {opening her eyes). Oh, where is my best 
bonnet ? 

Abigail. She's coming to herself. 

Dorothy. I bore it with me in a bandbox. {Sits up.') 

Julia. Indeed 'tis gone, Dorothy. When we fell into 
the quagmire it rolled off and down the hill. 

Dorothy. Oh, dear, oh, dear ! 'Twas a sweet thing 
from London with a bird of Paradise a top it, and a knot 
of puce-colored ribbon on the side. I shall never look upon 
its like again. 

Penelope. Yes, you will, Dorothy. You can get another 
hat. {Seizes her hand,) Come, I'm going to play the 
loveliest two-step for you. 

Abigail. Be more discreet, Penelope. You alarm your 
friends. 

{Loud noise and shouts heard off c.) 

Ida. What is that? (Runs to door.) 

(Enter Biddy, l.) 

Biddy. Oh, mistress, the Injuns be upon us. What 
shall we do ? What shall we do ? 
Abigail. The Indians ! 

(Dorothy faints . ) 

Ida. Scores of them surround the house. Oh, we are 
undone! We are undone! 

(Biddy puts fingers in her ears and shrieks. Ida faints. 
Julia rushes wildly about.) 

Julia. The Indians ! The Indians ! 

Penelope. Call the police. Where's the telephone? 
Oh, where's the telephone? 

Abigail. She's lost her wits. {Noise off stage grows 
louder.) Oh, we are undone ! 

(Penelope seizes the old rifle, drops on knees in the door- 
way, discharges it and faints. The stage becomes dark, 
and the curtain descends for a moment. At rise Penel- 
ope is seen just waking up wrapped in the old patch- 
work quilt. Room as in Scene I.) 



14 THE GOOD OLD DAYS 

Penelope [rising excitedly). The Indians ! The In- 
dians ! Save us ! [Enter Martha, r.) So we won't 
have the dance after all. 

{Enter Maud and Mrs. M., l.) 

Martha. Of course we're going to have the dance. 
What's the matter ? 

Penelope {sitting up). Where am I? {Looks around.) 
Oh, I've been dreaming. There are no Indians here, and 
I'm thankful to say I'm really living in the twentieth cen- 
tury. Oh, you were right, Aunt Martha, you were right. 

(A motor horn off C.) 

Maud. There are the girls. 

(Goes up c. Penelope runs to table, sits and picks up 
pencil and paper.) 

Penelope. I have just one thing more to say in my 
essay. {Writes and reads.) "But after all, whatever 
may be said in favor of the olden days, I am sure we should 
all be very thankful that we are living at a time when com- 
fort, convenience and safety are the universal portion." 
(Puts down pencil and rises. Enter c, Ida, Sally, Dor- 
othy, Grace and Julia, all laughing and talking at once. 
They wear modern costumes, and carry suit-cases and bags. 
Penelope hugs several of the girls at once.) Oh, girls, 
I am glad to see you ! I've just had the queerest dream 
about you, and stage-coaches and Indians. I thought we 
were all back in the eighteenth century. 

Dorothy. Indians ! Bless me. I'd rather be living 
right here and now, thank you. 

Penelope. You're right, Dorothy. Those good old 
days were well enough for people who didn't know any 
better, but for me — give me the twentieth century. 

{They all laugh.) 



DEC 



28 1912 




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